Red and Green
by Avada Cait-davra
Summary: It was the red and green of Christmas, of paint, of flowers. Not of the blood of a human and Vulcan. Not blood at all. It couldn't be.


Red mixes with green, but doesn't blend. Blurring around the edges, but never, _ever _blending. A contrast. Like paint thrown on the canvas of a starving artist trying to create a master piece, trying to put food on the table. Like red roses in the midst of a sea of green leaves. Like strawberries. Like red tinsel on a miraculously lit green Christmas tree. Like. Like…

Like anything except blood. Human blood and Vulcan blood. Pooling around their feet, seeping from inside them. Their grip on each other growing slack.

The wet between them is sweat. Water. Rain. Anything but blood.

The dizziness in his head is from not eating yet today. Not from all the blood he was losing.

Red and green. Like shiny new cars parked in the lot of a dealership. Like the balloons tied to their hoods. Red and green. Like the colors of a supernova exploding. A nebula. Aurora Borealis. Red like Mars, green like Neptune.

_Not blood._

Not the sight of him losing his love right in front of his eyes with nothing he can do about it. Because he's losing himself too.

They were right. Everyone who said he was too young, too reckless to be a Starfleet captain. They were all right. He couldn't do this. He couldn't handle this. But it was too fucking late now. He'd blown it. Seven ensigns, dead. And here he was, clinging to his first officer, his Vulcan, his _Spock_ covered in. _No, it wasn't blood. _He refuses to think of it was blood, damn it.

Why wouldn't his comm work? Why couldn't he call Scotty? Why couldn't Bones come fix this? Because it was too dangerous for the ship to be in orbit. And they couldn't get back now. Not with all the warbirds circling the atmosphere. He hoped to god Scotty had fixed the shields before now. Why hadn't he thought to check them himself? Why hadn't he thought about any of this?

His hands are shaking. Covered in red. Covered in green. Like a kindergartener finger painting something for his parents to hang on the fridge. Red and green like a smoky sunset framed against a lush horizon. Green and red like apples, granny smith and Macintosh. Like trees changing the color of their leaves in the fall.

A soft gasp sounds and he clutches heavier to his captain's shirt, a small moan issuing from his lips.

He is dying. He knows that. And, logically, this is the way he wanted it. He knew he would die in the line of duty at some point or another, he wanted it that way. He didn't want to grow old and have to face the emotional clutch of having to resign from his post. Of having to say goodbye to the stars. And having his love next to him, that was an added bonus. But, oh, he wants to save his captain. That is his job, his duty as first officer.

But his head is spinning. He is too weak now, too weak to move. Almost to even think.

He had lost 5.39 pints of blood now, the precious green flowing from him in waves. Mingling with his captain's. Almost affectionately. As if even their very blood longed for each other. His vision swam in and out of focus. There was no way to contact the ship. The rest of their landing party had been destroyed. There was no way out. He calculated about fifteen minutes before his veins ran out of blood, before his lungs ran out of air.

He looks up at his captain's face, smeared with red and green. The colors remind him of the traditional ways Vulcan women would dress after they had bonded with a male, the color of the ground on certain days in certain lights, the hue of the moons floating in Vulcan's orbit. But though the fluids are not any of those things, no matter how he wishes it so. The fluids are blood. The essential blood that pumps life through their figures. And they are losing it fast.

He hears his first officer's breathy sigh and tries to wrap his arms around him tighter, but Lord, he can't feel his fingers anymore. He doesn't feel like his hands are attached to the bottom of his arms anymore.

And now they aren't standing. Neither of them can possibly put forth that effort anymore. They lie horizontally in the puddle of red and green. The puddle of what can't be blood in his eyes. Of what can't be the evidence of his rash decisions, of his careless mistakes.

No, it's red and green like holly, like the Jell-o his mom used to make him when he was sick. It's red and green like the plaid shirt his father wore in the old picture on the mantle back in his house in Iowa. Red like his stepfather's pretty shiny little convertible he loved more than him, green like the cliff he drove it off of.

"Jim." The voice trembles, breaks half way out of his mouth. "I…I am sorry I could not-"

"Shut up, Spock." His voice is cold, and distant. He can't make it sound any different no matter how he tries. He can't let Spock make this his fault. It isn't his fault. Not at all. "Don' be sorry. 'S not your faul'" Oh god, his speech is slurring. He is so dizzy. So red, so green.

_No._

Spock starts to slacken his grip, starts to drift away.

_No, no, __**no. **_

Jim presses his lips against Spock's. They are trembling, tinged with green. Green creeps into the cracks between his teeth, and Kirk can taste it, metallic and sickening.

"Spock, no. Don'…don't leave me. Don't."

Red like anger. Green like jealousy.

"_Jim."_ And his jaw goes slack against Kirk's. Green still pools from him, but his chest stops moving rhythmically.

"God _damn_ it, Spock! No, Spock, no!" He's shivering, shaking the lifeless body of his first officer. He is dead. Dead. And it is all his fault. He is covered in red, covered in green.

And it is blood. It isn't apples or cars or roses or paint or planets or emotions, it's _blood. _His blood, Spock's blood. And that is Spock's lifeless body under him. And this is _all his fault. _And those are his tears falling into the blood now. And those are his whimpers and sobs escaping into the air, and there is nothing he can do. And he is falling into unconsciousness, fading fast, and he no longer has any reason to hang on. So he lets go, and falls into the darkness.

---

"Jim." Someone's voice. Far away. "Damn it, Jim. Come on."

Jim wills his eyes to open. Expecting to be dead, expecting to be in some sort of Klingon prison, he is confused when he sees the familiar walls of sickbay and the familiar face of Leonard McCoy.

" 'ones?"

"No, Jim. It's God." Bones says dryly. Funny thing is, that's almost what Kirk was thinking, hoping. Bones continues talking, berating him for his carelessness, asking him what hurt and where. But Jim isn't listening.

If he was alive, if he was here, that meant maybe…

"Spock?"

Bones shuts his mouth slowly, biting the side of his lip softly, awkwardly. Jim's eyes close. He knows what that means. Bones couldn't save him. He was supposed to be the best medical expert this side of the galaxy, how could he not save him? Tears spill from his closed eye lids.

"Jim…"

He doesn't answer, he can't. He has no words. Every inch of him is clouded in grief. Why did he survive? Why couldn't he have died too? And been spared the pain of having to live with someone else's blood on his hands? Just one more death that was his fault. No big deal, right? That's why he didn't die. He deserved this. Staying alive with this guilt was much more torture.

Sobs are falling, full force, wracking his body, sending pain shooting through him. He can't stop. He won't stop. Bones is trying to calm him, trying to make him stop, he's going to rip his stitches out. But Jim doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything anymore.

"Okay, Jim. Hang on then. I'm putting you back under. You can't deal with this right now."

And Jim opens his eyes and sees two hyposprays in Bones' hands. One red, one green.


End file.
